


As Only a Poet's Heart Can

by jasmiinitee



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional self harm, Endeavour Morse Has ADHD, Gen, Jim Is A Good Bro, and kind of a punching bag, but morse is still depressed af, doesn't understand opera at all but maybe he still kind of gets it, jim is the other way around, just guys being dudes, like i support claudine go live your life girl, morse is a heartbroken idiot, morse is bad at relationships but good with opera, morse/claudine as a mention but like we all know it's not endgame, talking about feelings, talking about tchaikovsky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 08:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19942840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasmiinitee/pseuds/jasmiinitee
Summary: Set during series 5.I'm sure Jim Strange sometimes looked back fondly on his and Morse's flatmate days, even though they mostly consisted of him losing sleep over either Morse's love life or the lack of such.And, well, not that he ever particularly enjoyed opera, he maybe couldn't hate it either. Morse was a good bloke at heart, after all, despite all of his troubles and quirks.





	As Only a Poet's Heart Can

**Author's Note:**

> _Я люблю вас / Я люблю вас, Ольга,_   
>  _Как одна безумная душа поэта_   
>  _Еще любить осуждена._
> 
> _I love you (formal) / I love you (formal), Olga,_  
>  _As only a poet's frantic heart_  
>  _Can still be fated to love._

The room was dark, curtains still open to a slowly dimming night. Morse had his face in his hands, an empty glass and an open bottle of scotch beside him within an arm’s reach. He stared at the draft in front of him, but mostly his eyes focused through it.

‘Matey... What are you doing?’ Jim asked carefully, looking over at Morse from the door after knocking on it gently. Jim stood in silence for a minute, letting his eyes roam over the scene, and frowned a little. 

‘You need any of this?’ He turned the lights on. 

Morse’s only response to getting his working conditions back in proper order was a defeated grunt. He rubbed his hands over his eyes and ran them through his hair. 

He had spread a mass of notes, papers and books on the dining table, but most of them were forgotten when another thought had struck and was pulled on top of the pile.

‘You’ve been at it the whole afternoon,’ Jim said and walked over to an empty chair beside him. ‘Made a mess, too.’

Morse shook his head and let his hands fall back onto the table. He picked up a stack of papers and started to pat them in neater order. Both of them looked at his hands a bit awkwardly, and he laid the notes and documents back down. The patting wasn’t of any help, when the edges of a pile clearly weren't the real problem of his work.

‘What time is it?’

‘Eleven o’clock. Why did you think I was getting worried?’

‘Eleven’s nothing,’ Morse grumbled. He looked at his work sternly, even though the twist of his mouth was just as puzzled over the order of the chaos as Jim’s.

‘Should be something if you ask me. For paperwork, at least.’

Morse shook his head and blinked at the table. He stretched his back and let the papers be, but Jim had to hold back his relieved exhale, when he got up and started pacing around instead. 

‘Do you you see a red pen?’ Morse asked, glaring at different corners of the table like he was trying to will the pen into existence. ‘There was one.’

‘Don’t you usually torture one when you work on your puzzles?’ Jim asked and picked up the paper that lie in a heap on the edge of the table. Nothing clattered down.

‘I looked there already.’

‘Your pockets?’ Jim asked, and Morse shoved a hand down both of his. He shook his head. ‘Then I think you must’ve left it by the window, matey.’

‘The window?’ Morse asked, but his outraged tone mellowed out quickly, when he turned to look where Jim was pointing. ‘Oh, good. Sorry,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I meant to draw the curtains shut.’

‘You’re all right. Couldn’t have spotted it in the dark.’

He didn’t turn to look at Jim after he closed the curtains and pocketed the pen, but walked over to his record player. It sat forgotten, just like the pen and the lights in the room had been, scratching quietly at nothing. 

He browsed through his records, weighing between two for a moment - a recording of Tchaikovsky from the Bolshoi and one of Verdi’s - and firmly avoided looking at Jim. Jim let out a soft sigh and looked over Morse’s scattered work once more. 

‘I don’t want you to scramble anything up over there,’ Morse said curtly, as Jim picked a pile of papers up, still frowning at his records.

‘Looks scrambled enough already. What’s all this?’ Jim asked calmly. ‘Crosswords and horses, all right. But why have you got three dictionaries open for...?’ Jim leafed through five pages' worth of hand-written, struck-over and scattered words. ‘Well, whatever this is.’

Morse was silent for a moment, and spent a bit too long on setting the record on its tray, staring at the way it revolved slowly, bringing out a set of soft introductory strings. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, waiting for Elena Kruglikova and Maria Maksakova to start their first lines. 

Jim sat back in his chair, and gave Morse an encouraging look, or at least the back of his neck. Morse blocked it with a nervous hand, running it through his hair, picking at his skin.

‘Morse?’

‘I, err...’ He took a deep breath and turned on his further foot, to glare and gesture vaguely at his notes. He still didn’t face Jim fully. ‘I lost my pen, and started thinking about something else. The assault case. And then I was thinking about these again, but didn’t have the pen. So. That’s why it’s not sorted out at all.’

‘And then...?’ Jim prompted, but nothing helpful came of it. Morse just shook his head again, and when he reached out to shove at Jim’s hands roughly, Jim dropped the papers politely.

‘Should we say that you just... despaired a bit, then?’ Jim tried. ‘Hm? Can happen to the best of us. I can give a hand if you tell me what it is.’

Morse pursed his lips and gave Jim a sulky glare from under his brows. ‘What is that supposed to mean? No, no. No, thank you.’

Jim spread his hands. ‘I’m not the one sat in the dark with a whole weekend’s worth of work for one night. It’s all right, just asking after a mate.’

‘I _was_ meant to do it last weekend,’ Morse said, and though it was a grudging admission, his look was more offended than worried. He shoved a hand down his pocket, leafing through the dictionary with the other.

‘Claudine asked me to have look at it,’ Morse said quietly, eyes nailed to the table. ‘For spelling and grammar, you see. And to make some suggestions. It’s an outline for... something for some publication she’s sending her photography to.’

Jim gave him a long look. ‘All right. That Frenchie of yours?’

Morse nodded.

‘What’s it about?’

‘I don’t...’ Morse twisted his mouth and picked the draft up in a tight grip. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t read it like that, really. I just... looked at the words.’ He sat back down with a heavy breath.

‘Am I talking with the whisky, Morse?’ Jim frowned suspiciously.

‘No.’ Morse shot him a sharp look of his own. ‘That came after.’

Jim kept his eyes on Morse and studied him carefully, a bit apprehensively. Morse looked back in spite of the uncomfortable way he was bouncing his heel under the table.

‘So, when’s she expecting it back?’

‘I had to telephone her today, and apologise for not having it ready.’

‘And why are you doing it for her?’ Jim asked. He didn’t laugh or sneer or frown; he only asked, and then he waited.

Morse screwed his jaws shut and stared back at him. He kept bouncing his leg, toying at the corner of the first page with nervous fingers.

‘I thought you said she wasn’t interested in anything more than a bit of fun for the weekends, matey.’

‘Yeah.’ Morse nodded quickly, and swallowed.

‘So why’s she asking you to do this for her?’

‘Well, she-’ Morse cut himself off, and his shoulders dropped. He shook his head and the edge disappeared from his tone. ‘She didn’t, really. I offered to help.’

Jim tilted his head and took a deep, resigned breath. ‘All right.’ 

Morse lifted his brows in place of a proper shrug. 

‘So why did you do that?’ Jim asked. ‘If you’re not even interested in reading the thing?’

Two men joined the cast of singing women. Morse glanced at Claudine’s draft. The cool veneer of something annoyed and tense fell from his person, and with it Morse’s face. Jim folded his hands in his lap and watched on quietly as Morse struggled to explain himself - mostly to himself. 

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted tightly, blinking at the ceiling a few times. ‘I must have... I... I think I just wanted to be of some use. To someone.’

‘You’re of better use to everyone if you sleep every now and then.’

Morse shook his head, and spread Claudine’s papers out again. ‘No, I mean… To _her_.’

Jim shook his head. ‘Got it. And she’s using you all right, Morse. I’m not blaming her,’ he said. ‘You’re making it bloody easy, too.’

‘Well, I must’ve done something to begin with.’ Morse rubbed a hand over his face, trying to blink back whatever emotion tried to seep through. ‘She’s… she used to smile so… in such a lovely way. I thought she might-’

Jim cut him off gently. ‘People do that, matey, sometimes just for the sake of it. When they’re having fun, you know.’

Morse’s inhale was long, weak and bitter as he stared at his self-torturing load of work. He blinked rapidly again, against angry tears trying to make their way out. Jim looked at him quietly, opened his mouth, and found nothing helpful to say. He let his own slow breath try and run as some kind of support for Morse’s ragged and thin huffing, as Morse ran his hands over his face and through his hair. He raked them over his own shoulders. 

‘I’m all over the place. I’m everywhere, and I-’ Morse let out a grunt when he found no real words. ‘I can’t do this.’

‘Do what? Check her papers?’

Morse shook his head and screwed his eyes shut. ‘Any of it.’

‘I think you should tell her so.’

‘I don’t want to. She’ll just think I’m being _too difficult_ and… snobbish or something. She’s called me too English, when we talk. That I’m hard to follow.’

Jim narrowed his eyes. ‘She’s not understanding English?’

‘She can’t understand _me_ ,’ Morse said, and met his eyes intently. Confusion and desperation clogged up his throat, and his voice grew strained. ‘Why _I am the way I am_.’

And he didn’t know it himself, either. 

It hung in the air heavily, unsaid but as clear as if he’d spoken the thought out loud. Morse looked at Jim like a drowning man, and Jim looked at him like a duck floating on the waves.

He gave Morse a soft nod and a look of sympathy. It was all he had to give. Morse sneered at himself and buried his face in his hands again, leaning back against the table just like when Jim had found him. 

It wasn’t quiet though neither of them said a thing. Ivan Kozlovsky sang his aria loudly enough. After a gentle start he got very excited, so that his light crooning turned into a full cry.

‘What’s he going on about?’ Jim asked with a soft chuckle.

‘ _“Ya lyublyu vas”_ means “I love you”,’ Morse said, and didn’t laugh. ‘At first he used the formal you. Lensky, the character. Now he says _tebya_. A very close and open you. He talks to a woman.’

Jim cleared his throat and grimaced. ‘Oh. Well, at least this sounds...’ He nodded towards the record player, spreading his hands.

Morse frowned. ‘Russian? Perhaps that’s because it is.’

‘No, I was...’ Jim cut himself off when he saw the tight and colourless attempt Morse made at a smile. He nodded. ‘ _Yeah_ , Russian. But I was about to say that it sounds a bit _cheerful_ for you, doesn’t it?’

Morse shrugged one shoulder and forced the strained smile to stay in place. ‘Ends with a death all the same.’

Jim stared ahead for a silent beat. Then he glanced at Morse again. 

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Fun. Do you want a sandwich? You look like you could do with a sandwich.’

Morse shook his head. ‘It’s not as if it’ll help much.’

‘Won’t hurt either. I’ll make you one.’

‘Thank you, but I really don’t feel like... I’d rather not.’

‘I know, you never. But I’m still up,’ Jim said, slapped his hands on his thighs, and got up.

Morse followed suit to try and stop him, hands spread out placatingly to try and block his way. Jim looked down at him, hands on his hips.

‘You really don’t-’ Morse started, but his words died when Jim folded his arms around him, and gave him a short but very tight hug. 

He gave Morse’s arm a gentle pat after. 

Morse stared at him like he’d grown a second head. ‘What was that for?’ 

He held onto Jim’s arm, half ready to push him away, half hesitating to move at all. 

‘Don’t get too excited,’ Jim said. It was a reassurance. ‘You just looked like you could do with one of those too. I’ll keep my mouth shut about it and you can keep on running around with your mysterious act as much as you like.’

Morse dropped his eyes, with a faintly agreeing but mostly uncomfortable humm.

‘Sit down and pour yourself another glass since you’re at it already. I’ll get you something to eat,’ Jim said. He stayed where he was until Morse nodded and sat back down at the table and waved him away.

Soon he sat with a chicken and currant sandwich in front of him, and Jim got the glass of whisky set in front of him in silent gratitude.

‘You didn’t skip to the end, did you, anyway?’ Jim asked after a while of watching Morse pick at his meal. He got up and set the glass down with a small thanks, turning to leave.

Morse looked up and knit his brows, looking around. ‘End of what?’

‘Opera’s still stories, right?’ Jim asked, and leaned against the wall with one shoulder. Morse gave him a slow nod. ‘And you said it ends in death?’

Morse sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. ‘Strange. There’s no need to start psychoanalysing me on the grounds of opera. I’m just-’

‘I’m not,’ Jim said. ‘I don’t know enough about either brains or music for that, matey.’

‘Then what are you talking about.’

‘Don’t be a prat with me, Morse,’ Jim said, but even through the frown his smile was fond. ‘I might not be drunk enough to talk like this, but you are, and I’m shagged after the day, so. The whole story’s still why you listen to that, isn’t it? They _all_ end in death if you don’t cut them short. Stories, I mean.’ 

Morse gave a half-agreeing shake of his head, picking at his sleeves, but looked at Jim with careful curiosity. He pointed at Morse and the opera playing behind him. 

‘They’re still worth it. And I feel like you think so too, since you're letting the record play through.’

Morse crossed his arms in front of himself. He let the hesitant look he held on Jim slowly sink back to the carpet, and rubbed a hand over his mouth. 

‘You don’t like opera,’ Morse pointed out.

‘Not really, but it’s not opera’s fault, is it. I’m just not used to it. Or clever enough, must be that. Anyway, the bug’s growing on me,’ Jim said. ‘Even if it’s tricky to follow sometimes, and rather snobbish. And a bit all over the shop, everywhere, most of the time.’

Morse closed his eyes with a heavy sigh, but smiled too, for a moment. He slumped deeper into his chair and nodded softly.

‘All right.’

'Please, eat that up. And go to bed some time before the clock strikes twelve, and one and two, matey. Makes my life easier if nothing else.’

‘Yeah. Sorry.’

‘No harm done. Good night.’

‘Hm. And sleep tight, Jim.’

Jim turned to leave, but peeked back inside and nodded towards the switch. ‘You want the light on, still?’

‘I’ll turn it off when I'm finished,’ Morse said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Sure.’

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually just a shameless ploy to share a love of mine, [the sound that is Ivan Kozlovsky as Lensky](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fhY8Qnfoak) in the SSSR Bolshoi's 1948 Evgeni Onegin. I know Morse is more into German operas but that's a very nice tenor sound to me.
> 
> I was scrolling through vague nervous text posts about asexual/aromantic issues and ADHD emotional control this morning, and crying. And then I wrote this. I don't know if it's really linked to those.  
> Anyway, what started out as a maybe is now definitely a firm headcanon, and my Morse is attention-deficit. Probably more on the inattentive side (ADD) but still.  
> Also like. I have such a hard time between needing stories about friends and like just loving your friends and found family and uhghfgufhd, but also needing to pair Morse up with someone kind and good and equally salty. 
> 
> Jim my mans help you're too nice. 
> 
> I have 15k worth of a weird Jim&Morse Jim/Morse "vaguely gay kinda just went from colleagues to married to what even is this are we like friends now?" in my files, so there's more where this came from, but they're a work in progress mess of snapshots.
> 
> Thanks again guys!


End file.
